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THE YACHT
contend in a sea witch the land partly encloses shielding them from the too heavy blows of an ungoverned ocean which when it chooses

tortures the biggest hulls, the best man knows to pit against its beating, and sinks them pitilessly Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minute

brilliance of cloudless days, with broad belling they glide to the wind tossing green water / sails from their sharp prows while over them the crew [["are" is crossed out]] crawls

antlike, solicitously grooming them, releasing, making fast they turn, lean far over and having caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark.

In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering and flitting follow them, they appear youthful, rare

as the light of a happy eye, live with the grace of all that in the mind is feckless, free and naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them

is moody, happing their glossy sides, as if feelin for some slightest flaws but fails completely. Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts

move, jockeying [miss spelled ?]] for a start, the signal is set and are off. Now the waves strike at them but they / they well made, they slip through, though they take [["are" is crossed out]] too in canvas

Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows. Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside. It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair

until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind the whole sea become an entanglement of watery bodies lost to the world bearing what they connote hold. Broken,

beaten, desolate, reaching from the dead to be taken they cry out, failing, failing! their cries / up in waves still as the skillful yachts pass / rising over.

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